Wandering The Lost and The Found
by The Whisper of Wings
Summary: A response to Another Artist's challenge, found on The Madrigals' forum. I may have broken some of the rules, so I'd be thankful if anyone pointed them out.


**Another Artist's Challenge**

_**(found on the Madrigal forums):**_

Name:

The Lost & the Found

Description:

MC thought he/she was lost, never to be found. Antagonist finds her/him at his/her all time low, but weirdly enough, the antagonist can't bring himself/herself to attack (verbally or physically).

Needed:

- At least a thousand words.

- Use of the quote: "Stupid conscious and its guilt. Stupid, stupid, stupid. If only I could have been born heartless... like [insert name]." It can be verbally said or thought out by the antagonist.

- Hint of a fairytale somewhere within the dialogue, but certain fairytale cannot be specified. (Ex. "How am I supposed to know where your glass slipper went? It's past midnight, honey." - hint of Cinderella, but not said in story.)

- Humor. If that makes any sense to you.

- Angst. Because humor and angst are best friends - they just don't know it.

Not Allowed:

- Use of the word "lost" or "found". Because I love messing with people.

- Kissing, hugging, or any human contact. One does not need to be touched to be comforted.

- Food, music, books.

- No family deaths.

- MC cannot be crying, sobbing, shaking, or anything else of that sort... Neither can the antagonist either.

Can, but not needed:

- Romance. Not needed, but if you think about it, it'd work pretty well with the prompt.

Date:

10/20/2010 (my birthday! xD)

* * *

Wandering feet come to a stop.

It has been some time since she last saw someone she recognized. Five days spent walking aimlessly through the roads and inquiring in shops, restaurants, hotels, hospitals, every institution that doesn't slam doors on her face with the requisite "We've no need for tramps!" thrown at her. Five nights of finding some abandoned corner where she can curl up, out of sight, never really sleeping because she knows she might never wake up again. Already there is a storm of confusion, of uncertainty, before the worries, like mold, begin to form on her mind. They are ugly thoughts but she cannot block them. They are in every defenseless moment, every tired second, every frustrated step. She finds nothing. Nothing finds her. It is a relationship that has become intimate for the past week.

But now she realizes that she cannot keep up like this. There is a point in your life when, young and ignorant as you are of the world at large, you suddenly start waking up to places and people who won't care about you, whether or not you come home safe, who you are, what you feel. They have their own lives to live and you have yours, and you can no longer ask for help like you once did. Thinking back to it many years later, she understands why it happened. But at the time, she was simply a confused fourteen-year-old girl, feeling lonely and abandoned, with very little money in her pocket and no one who would look her in the eye. Being little more than a child brings you no respect.

She surveys a tree, looking up at its crisscrossing network of branches. Without really thinking about it, going by a simple instinct for survival, she gets a good enough foothold on the trunk and some decent handhold on the branches. She doesn't pray or think about being safe. Safe is a term that has become unfamiliar in this world where only the strong are allowed to live. Safe does not exist. So she hoists herself up, leaving red hair tangled in the twigs, like invisible markers for someone to follow. She jumps from branch to branch, her hair, fair skin and green eyes the only things that separate her from being a monkey altogether. An overgrown, almost graceful monkey, climbing the only trees in a metropolitan area. It's a comparison some wouldn't feel comfortable with, but to her, it's a compliment. It means that she will not be easily conquered – that she has the skill to live on her own.

She uses her bag as a thin pillow, nothing inside but a few necessities: a notebook, pens, a wallet with only a handful of coins and a few bills. She hasn't touched most of them, trying to make her supplies last, refraining from spending what little money she has until it's inevitable. She drifts off to a restless sleep, where her dreams always depict her standing in an endless darkness that creeps over her, wrapping her in its arms and taking her away without anyone knowing. Without anyone caring.

It is a dream that always strikes truth in her heart.

* * *

He has come to this park for a reprieve. Hunting down his enemies, spying on anyone worth keeping tabs on, his hands full of work, work, work. For a boy of fourteen it is impressive, genius. For him, it simply isn't enough.

His lip curls at the sight of couples walking hand in hand, of elderly people croaking reprimands at errant grandchildren, of street children and beggars noticing his expensive-looking clothes and asking for alms. Shameless, the lot of them. They have not done a millimeter of all he has done.

But somehow his stomach sinks a little bit more at the thought of the work waiting for him. He is just a boy, not yet a man, not even past the playfulness or joy of childhood. But his innocence was robbed from him the day he was first given a gun and watched a bullet streak out to shed so much blood, take so much life. _They were filth,_he tells himself. _They had to be taken out._

Up ahead, he sees a flash of red through green leaves. Then the slightest hint of fair skin and a black shirt. Without really thinking about it, he runs to the tree in question and looks up.

A girl looks down at him, mid-stretch, their gazes locking. It is _her._He has only ever seen her face on black and white reports, every detail of her life. Pages and pages of facts and figures, her likes, her dislikes, _everything._Every single, _damned_thing he was forced to memorize as part of his agent training. His target, sitting completely vulnerable up above him after all those years of frustrated attempts to exterminate her. Automatically his hand goes to his pocket, stroking the cool metal of the gun's muzzle, fingers tracing its form, built solely to kill and look good while doing it.

"Please don't tell anyone," she suddenly says, cutting through his internal monologue. The surprised, fearful stare she had a while ago is replaced by calm defense and a businesslike tone. She slips her arms through her backpack's straps and, without warning, jumps down.

"Hey!" he shouts, removing his hand from his pocket and rushing forward. She free falls, her clothes blowing in the rush of gravity, adrenaline and – what he thinks – pure stupidity on her part. Hasn't_anyone_taught this girl not to risk herself so rashly when someone else wants to be her killer? It would be more than embarrassing if he returned to headquarters with the news that _yes, she's dead, but only because she fell off a tree_.

Her backpack lands before her and she falls, butt first, on top of it.

"Why didn't you use your golden braid to get down?" he asks, watching her dust herself off. He enjoys the stony glare she sends him, and starts to follow her around.

"Get off my back," she says to him and he smirks.

"Do you want to carry me, sweetheart?"

She spins around furiously, at this boy only a little taller than she, at his coffee-colored skin, dark hair, and cruel, cold amber eyes.

"I am _not_your sweetheart."

He pretends to clutch at his heart, injured by this verbal spar. "Ah, how you've wounded me!"

"Quit playacting." She turns on her heel and starts walking off.

He looks around and sees that no one is paying them attention. He only has to get her to the farthest corner, distract her, then finish her off. A simple job. His parents would be so proud of him.

"_Querida!"_he calls after her. "How you hurt me so with your indifference!"

"Do not call me anything in Spanish that I do not understand," she snarls. Like an angry cat, fur (or in this case, red hair) raised, claws at the ready. She has spunk – a pity, indeed. Waste of talent and, if he is to be honest, a waste of beauty. Not many have that fire burning in them. If only she wasn't his enemy, she would be a perfect bride.

But something is off. He has read the details of her life – and she is supposed to be multi-lingual. If he recalls correctly, she should know the meaning of "_querida"_. For a Cahill of her caliber, it is impossible for her to not know the word.

"I thought you understood Spanish," he says, his surprise taking control of his mind instead of caution. The girl stiffens, and he can see the muscles in her back tensing, her profile hardening at his words.

"Who are you?" she asks.

And he realizes that he has just blown his cover. The first mistake he has ever made.

"Lucian? Ekaterina? Tomas? Janus?" Her fists clench. "_Madrigal?_" The last word is accusatory, whipping at him like a snake flying through the wind.

Regret fills him at this end that must come so early. He would have liked to play with her a little longer, see her guard go down, watch her fall for him like girls always do. But now was the time to act.

She feels the metal press, hard and unforgiving, between her shoulder blades and senses him coming closer. He is so near, his other arm encircling her shoulders yet not quite touching, inches away. A technique she is familiar with: a way of hiding the weapon from sight. To the passerby's glancing sight, they are merely a couple embracing. She closes her eyes.

"Do it then," she says, her fourteen years becoming twenty-four, thirty-four, forty-four… all adding up to a lifetime never lived.

He prepares himself to check for any witnesses, to step back, remove the other arm around her to brace himself for the recoil. No blood spilled – a clean, internal kill by a bullet that penetrates the skin, leaving an advanced toxin to cover the hole, exploding inside and causing a hemorrhage. A brilliant device.

But he does not do any of the steps he is thinking of. Instead he stands there, still pretending to embrace her with arms at a measured distance, watching green eyes disappear in a flutter of black lashes, feeling her heart's vibration transmitted through the gun pump unsteadily then calmly, wondering why on bloody earth he thinks she's so warm, so _beautiful_, and how his fingers can't quite pull the trigger.

Her eyes open and annoyance flickers in his reflection. "What are you waiting for?"

"Stupid conscious and its guilt. Stupid, stupid, stupid. If only I could have been born heartless... like Isabel," he says, unaware of the words slipping through his lips.

Her eyebrows pull together, confused. "_What?_"

A man passes, stares at them.

"For goodness' sake," he hisses through gritted teeth, "can't you at least pretend you're having fun?"

"Fun? You call this _fun?_" she says, indignant. "Oh, let's not forget you have a g—"

The gun presses harder.

"If you think you're sc—"

"I am dead serious, _querida,_" he says. "Shut up."

Her mouth hangs open. "Is chivalry dead?"

"I want you to close your mouth."

She obeys.

"Now, twist a little to your right, like you're about to kiss me."

"Oka—Wait. What?"

"_Do it."_

She turns, as slowly as she possibly can. She doesn't know him, this guy; she has not even touched a centimeter of his hair. Though he is so close- at least he isn't _that_close- but his orders were…

The gun recedes and she feels the pressure removed.

"Did you really think I'd kiss you?" he smirks, pocketing the gun. "Turn to your left." He removes his arms around her.

She does not know what to say to this mysterious, handsome, _unbelievable_male specimen whose arrogance is the only thing that contradicts his perfection. That and his intent to kill her awhile ago.

"You're leaving?" she asks, watching him straighten his clothes.

"Yes, _querida._"

"What's your name?" She watches as his jaw stiffen, his hands tense. But when he looks at her, he smiles.

"I suppose it won't hurt to tell you. You'll know sooner or later anyway."

"What do you mean?"

He shakes his head.

"My name is Vikram Kabra, _querida…_Or should I say, Hope Cahill?"

* * *

Vikram watches the flames go up. Even now, they remind him of her hair. Of _her._ The spark, the vibrancy, the _truth_she always has.

He strokes the gun in his pocket; the same gun all these years. Meant to get rid of her but never fulfilling its purpose.

"Goodbye."

* * *

_A heartfelt "thank you" goes to my beta, Joelle8, who cleared up all those little details I was bothered with. They're little things, actually, but when she edited them – they made all the difference. Of course, I don't quite agree with her opinion that this oneshot is "good"…it's probably just average. _

_An explanation for the pairing: No, I'm not headed for Crack!Ship land…though it does seem viable at the moment, since I've tired of the ordinary pairings. Besides, when you think about it, the pairings are limited to Amy/Ian, Amy/Hamilton, Amy/whoever. It's time to we started being creative. But back to the real reason…I was aiming to make you believe a different thing, so that the identities have more "punch". I didn't want to put in the names until the very end. Which is why, though you may think this was Amy/Ian, I set careful differences: Ian calls Amy "love", not "sweetheart/querida". Vikram used those because I interpreted him as something similar to his son, except more ruthless. And Hope Cahill was left alone as part of her training, though she didn't realize it was training until her mother, Grace, would come back for her days later. She was never really in any danger. The man who passed them by and stared was actually a Madrigal._

_I felt like explaining this one, only for the sake that I want to make sure everyone understood my intent very clearly. But oneshots in the future (and the past) might not offer an explanation. _


End file.
